A Day in the Life of a "Greedy" Allied Health Therapist

The morning hums to life in a flurry of footsteps and clinking lunchboxes. Through the rhythm of a home filled with small voices and toast crumbs are pockets of thoughts for the little ones and families I support. With a part-time work week, every hour is precious. Every visit, a chance to offer something meaningful.

In between sandwich-making and shoe-finding, I’m sending out messages. Not your standard confirmations, but soft reminders, the kind that say, “I see you, I know your days are full, and are you up for today?” Because these are families holding more than just calendars. They’re holding diagnoses, hospital bags half-packed, and hope that stretches thin on hard days.

Backpacks zipped, heads kissed. And even while I’m still tying laces or wiping faces, I’m already wondering, how can I show up with value today? What will this little one need from me? What does their parent need from someone who gets it?

As the door closes behind the kids, I open emails. A teacher, with zero resources and endless pressure. An educator asking for help that fits into already overflowing cups. I answer with empathy. With doable strategies. With the kind of support that doesn't add more to the pile but holds the pile with care. An hour has passed.

Invoices go out late. Again. A phone call comes in. An OT friend on the line, voice full of worry about one of our shared babies. This little one doesn’t just catch colds, they lose feeding skills. Swallow safety teeters. We pivot. We plan.

A glance at the clock—ooph, it’s time to go. Transition to school meeting. My mind’s still spinning: Have I done enough to help this go well? But the room is full of love for this child. There’s a plan built by a circle of hearts and hands. Physio, OT, educators, me… and most importantly, mum. We linger after. I sit with her in the heaviness, in the wondering of what comes next. We don't rush. We just sit.

Home for a bite, then off again, this time, to a baby’s house. I queue up a podcast on sensory integration and flip through hospital discharge notes outside their home. When I walk in, I already know the task is bigger than therapy goals. It’s about holding space, for mum’s exhaustion, her fierce love, her tiny thread of hope.

I delight in her baby. I celebrate the new things I see. Then we gently explore feeding positions, test bottles, tweak thickeners. I keep one eye on joy, the other on safety. We wrap up. I check in again—Is this too much? Can I lighten the load?

Later, I sit at my laptop writing something that matters deeply, an application for a speech-generating AAC device. For a little one who deserves the opportunity to share their needs, wants, and dreams. Who deserves a form of communication that feels like their voice. A way to connect, to express, to be heard in the world. Not just because they need it, but because it is a basic human right to be truly heard and understood.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to prep for my next session. What book, what game, what activity makes this little one light up? I’m scrolling through online toy stores, searching for something that’s accessible, something that works with their motor planning challenges instead of against them. Something they can grasp, manipulate, enjoy. Something that gives us a shared moment, a chance to practise communication in a way that’s meaningful. So they can show us what they need. What they want. Who they are. What they dream about.

As I stir the sauce at dinner, another idea begins to form—a plan to support a child’s success at the playground. For this little one, outdoor play isn’t as simple as it looks. The sights, the sounds, the unknowns, they can tip everything sideways.

So I start sketching in my mind: visual supports that align with the icons used in her communication device. Carefully chosen symbols that are already familiar. Printed at just the right size. Laminated in matte to reduce glare because her vision deserves the same kind of consideration her voice does.

These are small things. But together, they might help this family share the joy of a morning at the park. Just like most families. Not as a stressful outing, but as a moment of connection, of freedom, of fun.

And then……bills. Always rolling in. One insurance alone is $70 a month, just to be able to walk into a school and see one child. Tax time looms. That HECS debt? It still sits there, heavy and unmoving. Years in, and it barely shifts. Because this work, while rich in meaning, rarely brings financial comfort. The numbers don’t add up but the heart behind it always does.

Some visits take a 40-minute round trip to reach. Sometimes more. I go when the family asks. When the baby is awake. When the toddler isn’t exhausted. And I invoice for 30 minutes—the capped time. The extra 20 minutes I absorb. It’s just another 20 minutes here and there... until it’s hours, folded quietly into the heart of the work.

And the reports? How long did that one take? Reading over every note, reflecting on clinical reasoning, choosing the words that protect dignity while providing clarity, writing, revising, emailing it off. I log a flat hour. I know it took more. But I undercut the time it takes, again. Because the real work never fits neatly into time blocks or line items.

And here’s the thing: I love this work. Deeply. Even in my own body that whispers its limits. But I wouldn't change it. Because being here, doing this, matters. And I get to do it, with empathy, with tenderness, and with a heart that knows exactly what it means to keep showing up anyway.